From above me I heard a sound like somebody killing a dog. After a minute I realized it was singing. I walked up the shattered stairs to investigate.

In the corner of the rubble-filled room, an old man lay on a grimy sleeping bag surrounded by empty bean cans. He was bony and filthy with long greasy hair, his grizzled beard a tangle, hairs nearest his mouth stained with food and wine and tobacco. He fixed me with his blue eyes, bright beneath bushy brows.

“You ain’t staying here,” he snarled. “But I’d take a cigarette if you got one.”

“It doesn’t work like that. You can’t just spark up a joint on the street. You need to be in a licensed coffeehouse. See?” I pointed to a no smoking sign.

He walked over to the sign and studied it, turned around, the joint in his mouth. “Dude, take my picture! Instagram!” He squatted down in front of the sign and thrust double fuck-you fingers in the air. “Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy! USA! USA!”